Time travelling, sea to summit, in the woods of York, Maine

One of my favorite “backyard” walks is the “sea-to-summit” hike from Highland Farm in York to the summit of Mount Agamenticus.  The walk doesn’t actually start at the beach, but at the York Land Trust Highland Farm property, located on a hill overlooking the saltwater marshes of the York River. From Highland Farm, a series of interconnected trails on various parcels of land lead to the summit of Mount A, the highest peak on the coast south of Camden.

On this cloudy but warm fall day, we had lunch on the cliffs above Folly Pond, deep in the woods of York.

On this cloudy but warm fall day, we had lunch on the cliffs above Folly Pond, deep in the woods of York.

This hike through the forest is full of intriguing natural features as well as the ghosts of those who once farmed this land: Bluebirds and blue herons; old cemeteries deep in the woods and granite-walled cellar holes where families lived and died; a scenic overview above an isolated pond; erratic boulders and steep cliffs carved by glaciers; and finally, at the Mount A summit, a view of the sea to the east and Mount Washington (on a clear day) to the west. Not bad for a hike just that begins just a few minutes from my house.

Fall 2012 062

Old foundations, cellar holes and other remnants of the past in the woods of York.

This fall, on Columbus Day weekend, I completed the “Sea-to-Summit” walk once again with a small group of friends and two active kids.  The distance from Highland Farms to the summit of Mt. A is about five miles, including a small portion on Mountain Road. Hard-core hikers can easily hike to the mountain summit and back, but most people probably will want to spot cars. If you can’t spot cars, just exploring these trails half-way is a great morning or afternoon walk.

When we dropped one car at Mount A at noon, the summit was busy with hikers and families enjoying the foliage and views of the Atlantic Ocean.  But later, deep in the woods, we didn’t see another hiker on the four-mile hike in the woods from Highland Farm to Mountain Road. (We did run into a York police officer patrolling on an ATV, the same guy we had seen the year before, in almost the exact spot, time and day).  The area is great mountain biking terrain, but the trails are not as “discovered” as the trails in the immediate vicinity of Mount A. Mostly, these woods are unpeopled.  While I love my visits to Yellowstone or Acadia National Parks, every time I walk through this forest, I am reminded that beautiful and often more peaceful destinations await discovery in my own neighborhood.

We began the walk at Highland Farm (a farm for generations, until it became a nine-hole course that went bust), with the two boys sprinting ahead to look at the graves in the first of three Junkins family cemeteries on this route, two on the Highland Farm property and a third deep in the woods on land owned by the Kittery and York Water Districts.

The Junkins family first came to York in 1661, when Robert Junkins settled in the part of York known as Scotland, where he built a garrison house overlooking the York River (on what is now Cider Hill Road, I believe).  Junkins was a Scotsman who had fought against Cromwell’s army during the English Civil War.  He was taken prisoner in 1650 and, with 150 others, sold into indentured servitude on a ship headed for Boston.  Junkins was purchased by Valentine Hill of Durham, New Hampshire, and worked for him until the completing the term of his indenture, when he moved to York. (Valentine Hill’s home in Durham is now the Three Chimneys Inn).

The Junkinses multiplied mightily and many still live in the area. They have an entire website devoted to their geneaology and history, the Junkins Family Association, including a more comprehensive (and fascinating) account of how Robert landed in York.  Two of his sons died in an Indian attack in 1714 and the family cradle that rocked these two sons and many other children that followed now sits inside the Old Gaol Museum in York.  I don’t know if Robert walked these lands, exactly, but his descendants did, and I love walking on this trail that shows such visible artifacts of the human past: the gravestones, the stone walls, the foundations and covered wells.

I'm glad to know that someone take care of these graves in the woods. David Junkins was just  a babe during the Revolution, but perhaps a veteran from the War of 1812.

I’m glad to know that someone take care of these graves in the woods. David Junkins was just a babe during the Revolution, but perhaps a veteran from the War of 1812.

Jeremy and his friend soon located the oldest grave is the first cemetery, a small well-maintained patch of land surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Then they dashed off down the Barred Owl trail, where we found the second Jenkins cemetery up on a little knoll.  One small stone marked the grave of a small child.  “What do these initials mean?” Jeremy asked as he pointed towards an even smaller stone.  I explained that the stone was probably the footstone for the headstone, which memorialized a baby’s short life.

We walked on, intersecting with the Kingsbury Trail, which we followed down a small hill to causeway/dam on the swampy edge of Boulter Pond, where an osprey soared above us.  Shortly after entering the forest again, we picked up the “White Trail” (on Water District land) Water District land.   Soon we were deep in the woods, with steep cliffs and piles of rocks looming above us on the eastern side of the trail.

Further on, we spotted a cellar hole, just off the trail, that opens the door to the human past. Who lived here? What did this branch of the Junkins family do to keep body and soul together? When was this home abandoned, or moved to another location?

Within the granite-slab cellar-hole is a small dark chamber constructed from other stones. Was this a root cellar?  A special pen for sheep or other animals?  I wanted to know, but in a way, not knowing makes the structure more intriguing.

A few minutes later, we came upon another cellar-hole, lined with large slabs of cut granite. A couple of hundred yards off the trail, (to the left) is another cemetery, the family cemetery of the particular band of Junkins who farmed this parcel and probably raised sheep.

Sheep were big in New England in the first part of the 19th century and far more profitable than cash crop  farming in the stone-filled soil common to this area. But as the sheep industry in the West expanded, the industry began to decline in Maine, and so did the farms.  This abandoned home that seems so remote once was part of a small community, one that was isolated from the village of York, but existed as a complete small world of Junkinses.

That black lump on the side of the tree trunk is the porcupine inching his way up the trunk.

That black lump on the side of the tree trunk is the porcupine inching his way up the trunk.

“Look, there’s a porcupine,” my friend called out.

The boys immediately dashed up the main trail towards a tree, where a porcupine was inching its way up the trunk.  After reaching an overhanging branch, the animal settled, sloth-like, above our heads.

Although I wanted to show the boys the third Junkins cemetery, we needed to continue on, due to the press of time and daylight.

When the White Trail intersected with the “Yellow Trail”, we took the turn (on “yellow”) towards Mount A, 2.4 miles away.  A few minutes later, I recognized the side trail up to the rise that overlooks Folly Pond.  We climbed uphill, then settled on some smooth stones carpeted with pine needles  to enjoy a picnic lunch and the view of the pond through the pine trees. Steep cliffs drop down to the pond, but the boys were busy on another rock, discussing Minecraft, so I enjoyed my lunch without the hovering possibility of a boy falling overboard.

After lunch, we continued onward, crossing streams, and passing by the berm at the lower end of Folly Pond.Eventually we emerged from the woods onto Mountain Road, where hikers can either turn left and then take a path into the woods to connect with a trail that parallels the road, or turn left along the road. We chose the road and walked on pavement to the base of the mountain, then headed up the mountain towards the Ring Trail.

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

View of the cliffs and pine trees that greets hikers as they emerge from the Witch Hazel Trail onto the summit of Mount A.

Mount Agamenticus offers many routes to its summit (the most direct being the road). The most direct route, from the parking area at the base of the access road, is the Ring Trail to the Witch Hazel Trail.  After 20 minutes of steady uphill hiking, we again emerged from the woods, to a view of a granite cliff topped with a row of pines.  Nearby, the viewing platform offers a view of Mount Washington, but not on this day, as the clouds had rolled in.

We made it, Sea-to-Summit, a great five-mile hike.

We made it, Sea-to-Summit, a great five-mile hike.

We drove a circuitous route — probably 8 or 10 miles — back to our car at Highland Farm. Within a few minutes, we arrived at the parking lot from whence we departed three hours earlier.  In taking the more direct route to the mountain, through the woods, we had become time travellers of a sort. We had visited the past and walked at the same speed the with which the Junkins children once had travelled to school.  It felt strange to return so quickly in our cars at the Farm.  Maybe this “small adventure” wasn’t so small after all.

Notes and Resources.

The Highland Farm property, (see map at this link) owned by the York Land Trust, offers a neat walk all by itself, through fields and woods and along rocky cliffs.  One spring day a couple of years ago, while walking up on the highest part of the land, I was surrounded by an angry bunch of turkey vultures, probably because I was near  nesting site. Watch out for ticks.

Hikers often get lost in the woods surrounding Mount Agamenticus.  Although trail signage has improved over the years, both at Mount A and on the Water Districts’ properties, hikers who are not very familiar with the area should bring a map to avoid trudging many unintended miles. The York and Kittery Water Districts offer a combined map of their properties here.  A map of Mount Agamenticus is here.  Pets must be leashed on these lands.  Hunting is permitted on Water District lands; hikers should wear bright orange during fall hunting season, or better yet, hike on Sundays, when hunting is not permitted.

The York Land Trust offers a history-based hike of this area every so often, which I hope to attend one day, for this walk holds many layers of history beneath its trails.

For more family hikes, see my post, Round up: Five great family hikes in Maine.

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Living large on the lava fields at the Fimmvörðuháls Pass, Iceland

I'm glad it was misty so I was little less aware of the 2,000 foot drop on both sides of this ridge.

I’m glad it was misty so I was little less aware of the 2,000 foot drop on both sides of this ridge.

When we arrive at the lava flows, I am so glad that we opted to make the trek from Þorsmork (pronounced “Thorsmork”) to this misty pass between the Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull glaciers here in southern Iceland.  Yesterday the forecast looked grim, with rain and high winds predicted. Several of the groups camped out at the huts in Þorsmork bailed Saturday morning on the early bus to Reykjavik.  Our group of nine, led by our guide Elin, decided that we would attempt the hike to the Fimmvörðuháls pass, but would postpone our start until after lunch to avoid the worst of the weather.

That’s one great advantage of summer-time hiking in Iceland – although the sun may briefly set, it never gets dark, so hikers can hike around the clock without worrying about walking in the dark. After seven days in Iceland, I have come to appreciate long days of light (with about three hours of dusky twilight) and to enjoy wandering about after dinner for a 10 p.m. walk.  (Wearing blinders helps me to get a good night’s sleep).

July 2013 DF 192

We hiked in the braided bed of the Krossá River en route to the glaciers. When Katla erupts, this river bed might quickly fill with raging icy water.

My husband and I came to Iceland to do the world-renowned Laugavegur trek from Landmannalaugar to Þorsmork, and then to continue the trek by hiking from Þorsmork over the pass and then down along the many waterfalls of the Skógaá.  I had long wanted to complete this trek, but I especially wanted to climb up to the glaciers to see the landscape created by the 2010 eruption of the volcano beneath Eyjafjallajökull glacier.

In April 2010, the Eyjafjallajökull eruption created a cloud of moisture-laden ash that shut down all air traffic to and from Europe for almost two weeks. Today, scientists in Iceland are monitoring Katla, the volcano that lies beneath the other, larger glacier, Mýrdalsjökull, and which has erupted every 40-60 years since Iceland was settled around 800 AD.  The volcano, which may be the largest in the northern hemisphere, is way overdue for its eruption and recently has been showing signs of increased activity.  Because of its size and power, Katla is a more destructive volcano, mostly due to the intense flash floods created when ice over the volcanic vent melts.  Trailside signs within a 25-mile radius of Katla tell hikers to run for high ground if they see or hear flares that mountain hut masters will shoot into the air if an eruption is imminent.

July 2013 DF 201

Just for fun, another view of the narrow ridge. I didn’t dare take out my camera at the other tricky spot, where I clung to an anchored chain only to realize half-way across that most of the anchors had pulled loose.

For months now, I had been looking forward to the climb up to the pass, where we planned to spend the night in a small mountain hut.  But I have to say, when Elin said the weather might prevent us from hiking to the glaciers, I wasn’t as crushed as I might have expected. I greatly enjoyed the four-day Laugavegur trek from Landmannalaugar, but I hadn’t undertaken a multi-day hike since before my son was born, and I was pretty hiked out after four long days on the trail.

But when we arrive at the glacier, all of us soaking wet despite our rain gear, I am so so glad we made it here.  Wrinkled mounds of dark reddish-brown cooled lava rise out of the snow.  Up close, I can see broken off lava tubes through which the molten lave poured in 2010. When I put my hand on the earth, I can feel the warmth leftover from the eruption.  These lava fields are amazing ++!

Lava fields in a misty landscape between the two glaciers.

Lava fields in a misty landscape between the two glaciers.

To get to the lava fields, we climbed up about 3000 feet (1000 meters) from Þorsmork – the Valley of  Thor – along a path that rose gradually over about six or seven miles. By New England standards, the hiking was fairly easy and not steep. At one point, however, we walked across a three-foot wide ridge, with the mountain dropping off a 2,000 feet on each side, a softer version of the Knife Edge at Maine’s Mount Katahdin.  I felt a wee bit terrified, but manage to scramble across the ridge.

Later, as we climbed higher, we walked on a path about 16 inches wide, with volcanic-sand mountain on one side and a steep drop-off on the other.  Along the path was a chain that hikers can hold onto for security, but the chain was anchored in the sandy-rocky volcanic scree, and at several points, the anchors had pulled free.  So, not much security there.  But it’s good to live on the edge, right? And maybe that’s why I wanted to come here, to see if I still have it in me to live on that edge.

Our Romanian hiking buddy Michaela points out a lava tube.

Our Romanian hiking buddy Michaela points out a lava tube.

At the rainy pass, after spending some time exploring the lava fields, we continue on in a thick mist, trudging through mushy snow towards the hut where we will spend the night.  By the time we reach it, all of us are thoroughly soaked. A scramble of changing clothes, stringing up lines, and hanging things ensues.  This hut, which is newly built and at which we are the first or nearly the first visitors, sits on a gravelly flat spot on the pass and is very exposed to the wind.  The hut had an outhouse, but it blew away a few days after its installation.

Our guide stands on a snowfield melting over the lava.

Our guide stands on a snowfield melting over the lava.

By now, it is after 9 p.m. In the tiny kitchen area, Elin efficiently prepares a late-night supper of lightly fried Arctic char.  Our group, which includes four other American hikers, a German guy and a young woman from Romania, gathers around the table and dives into the food.  I am so happy to be here, on this ghostly mountain pass on a mid-summer eve.

The total hiking distance for the trek from Landmannalaugar to Skogar is roughly 72 kilometers (45 miles) over 6 days, with a maximum daily ascent of 800 meters (2600 feet) and about 4-7 hours of hiking time per day.

A view of the hut at Fimmvörðuháls . The mist was starting to clear.

A view of the hut at Finnmordhuhals. The mist was starting to clear.

Resources

As I said in my earlier post, I completed this trek with a group through Icelandic Mountain Guides, but hikers can do it on their own too.

See a few more photos below!

We saw more than 20 waterfalls on the hike down to the highway and Skogar Falls.

We saw more than 20 waterfalls on the hike from the hut at Fimmvörðuháls down to Skogar. Pictured here, Skogar Falls, which is directly off a major highway.

You can't blog about Iceland and NOT include a photo of the Blue Lagoon. It's overpriced and touristy, but those flaws don't make it any less spectacular.

You can’t blog about Iceland and NOT include a photo of the Blue Lagoon. It’s overpriced and touristy, but those flaws don’t make it any less spectacular.

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Finding the fountain of youth (maybe) on Iceland’s Laugavegur trek

July 2013 DF 029

We began our trek in Landmannalaugar, where visitors can soak in natural hot springs.

As we begin our hike from Landmannalaugar, I feel like I am 25 again, discovering new worlds for the very first time:  vast green alpine fields, steaming fumaroles, a wide open landscape that stretches for miles.  A dark cloud chases us for a while, but after a morning of steady rain on the bus ride from Reykjavik, the rain has stopped.   Every few steps demands a photograph: bubbling mudpots, heaps of shiny obsidian strewn across the ground, barren brown hills painted with grassy swathes.

July 2013 DF 036

A field of obsidian boulders.

This Monday afternoon is the first day of the Laugavegur trek, a four-day 55-kilometer hike from the hot springs area of Landmannalaugar to the valley of Þormork, where we plan to extend our trek another 20 kilometers by hiking up to the Finnmorduhals pass between two volcanic glaciers and then down to the village of Skogar on the southern coast of Iceland.  This well-travelled trek is Iceland’s most famous, and I have been wanting to do it for several years.

At every turn, I needed to stop and take photos.

At every turn, I needed to stop and take photos.

After a quick lunch at the huts in Landmannalaugar, we set off uphill as the sun breaks through the dark clouds lingering in the aftermath the morning’s heavy rain.  I have never seen anything like this strange volcanic landscape, with its mixture of obsidian boulders, barren sands, green alpine fields, and not a single tree. Climbing higher, we cross a narrow ridge with wide-open views of endless rolling pasture backed by folds upon folds of mountain peaks. We walk across mushy snowfields that usually have melted by this time of year – the first part of July – but which remain intact because of the cooler weather Iceland has experienced this spring and summer.

July 2013 DF 060

Iceland in July, at least for a few moments. Typically these snowfields have melted by the time summer comes.

In the late afternoon, we hike through a cloud of mist that decreases visibility to about 50 feet.  Although the scenery is winter-like, the temperature is comfortable. Finally, around 6 o’clock, we arrive at our first hut, Hrafntinnusker, where our guide Elin prepares a late dinner of mild fish – what she calls catfish — with a white sauce and rice.

 

 

Hiking in the mist. Although the path was pretty well-travelled, I'm glad we had a guide.

Hiking in the mist. Although the path was pretty well-travelled, I’m glad we had a guide.

Hiking for miles across the snow through a damp mist and then sleeping in a crowded hut with at least one heavy snorer is not everyone’s cup of tea, but for me it is close to paradise.

On the second day of the hike, we awake to a cloudless sky, a rare picture-perfect Icelandic summer day, with nearly 24 hours of daylight and no rain.  Our goal today is the hut at Lake Álftavatn – “Swan Lake”.  Instead of a gradual uphill climb, we climb down to the gorge of Jökultungur.  From different vantage points, we take in wide open views of four glaciers and a crazy array of pyramid-shaped mountains rising from the plain.  “These are my people,” I say to my husband as I hold out my arms to the mountains.

The sun came out the next day and we hiked this peak behind the hut before beginning our journey to the next hut.

The sun came out the next day and we hiked this peak behind the hut before beginning our journey to the next hut.

Mid-morning, we make our first river crossing and slosh through knee-deep water in neoprene socks and water shoes. Considering its proximity to the Arctic Circle, Iceland has a moderate climate, with average winter temperatures hovering around 32 degrees Farenheit in Reykjavik.  But nothing is moderate about Iceland’s glacial rivers.

The icy cold water bites at my feet as I pick my way across the rocks across the river.  In these mountain rivers, the water sometimes runs three feet high, but on this trek, the rivers never rise higher than our knees.

Jeeps and even buses outfitted with big tires plow through glacial rivers. Kids, don't try this at home!

Jeeps and even buses outfitted with big tires plow through glacial rivers. Kids, don’t try this at home!

 

Day three brings more spectacular scenery, as we hike across the black sand deserts of Mælifellssandur.  I’m afraid we might start taking this scenery for granted, that we might too quickly complain about being tired rather than stopping to look around at this amazing landscape.

 

Hiking through the black sands desert towards Emstrur.

Hiking through the black sands desert towards Emstrur.

For several miles, we hike on a dusty jeep road.  In the afternoon, in the midst of a rest break by a river, a dust cloud swirls above the river bank.  Soon, a herd of Icelandic horses emerges from the dust, some with riders and many without.  A scene out of the Wild West here in southern Iceland.  But no cowboys here – just tourists on an organized horse trip.

Iceland is home to 300,000 people and 100,000 horses, which people own in clusters of three, four or even ten, just because they like them.  With hardy horses that spend most of winter outdoors and so much open land for grazing, it doesn’t cost much to keep horses, so horse lovers tend to collect small herds of them.

Horses, horses, everywhere.

Horses, horses, everywhere.

Eventually the ground begins to turn green as we leave the sands behind for the pastures of the Emstrur region, where farmers used to let their sheep loose to graze in the summer months. Our hut is located on a ridge overlooking a steep canyon. After dinner, we hike over to look at the Markarfljöt canyon at a cliff that drops 200 meters down the rocks.  Very much like the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, minus the railings — and the crowds.

By the fourth day of the trek, all of us in our international group of 13 are feeling tired.  I am glad that we will have a rest day before climbing up to Fimmorduhals.  On this last day of the Laugavegur trek, we hike up and down many small gullies and valleys. We eat lunch amidst the ruins of an old shepherd’s shelter, where we take a short detour to a stunning waterfall.

Just another waterfall....

Just another waterfall….

Our guide laughs as we snap photos.  “You will see so many waterfalls when we hike to Skogar, ” she says, as if this waterfall is no big deal.  By the day’s end, we encounter our first shrubs in Iceland, as we hike amidst chest-high shrubbery that remind me of willows (perhaps they are), then through glades of spindly Arctic birch trees.  The forest floor is littered with purple and yellow flowers.  We climb up one last hill and then down into Þorsmork, the valley cut by the Krossá River, where our hut awaits.  Taking off my boots and slipping into Tevas feels like heaven.

This glade of birches is the first we've encountered in four days.

This glade of birches is the first we’ve encountered in four days.

By the time we arrive at Þorsmork, I no longer feel like I’m 25.  I’m ready to put on clean socks and rest on the sofa in the hut. By the standards of a typical hiking day, eight to ten miles with daypacks is pretty easy.  I know I can keep going – and we will continue to Fimmorduhals –but after that, I’m good with returning to Reykjavik for a late dinner. One truth I have learned on this trip is that maybe I won’t be up for hiking the entire Appalachian Trail with a full backpack when I am 65.  That maybe such adventures are best suited to younger bodies. That’s okay, because there are plenty of other hikes in between, at home and around the world, including more here Iceland.  In another year or so, I’ll wear out these ten-year-old hiking boots that have carried me across the Laugavegur trek, but they won’t be last pair I’ll buy.  Already I’m wondering how much it rains in southern Greenland.  Do polar bears roam the mountains there?

Lupines along the trail.

Lupines along the trail.

Part II, about our hike up to the volcano, coming soon!

Resources

After researching the possibilities, I decided to do the hike with Icelandic Mountain Guides, a long-standing company that offers many different kinds of adventures in Iceland at a reasonable cost (albeit far more than a do-it-yourself adventure). Although it is not difficult to make your own arrangements to stay in the huts (as long as you do it many months in advance), I liked the idea of being with a group for safety reasons, and I also liked having a guide who was knowledgeable about the area.  Also, most of the huts are accessible by rough (and circuitous) jeep roads. A jeep delivered our gear from hut to hut so that we only had to carry daypacks (which was fabulous!). Plenty of people from all over the world, however, hike the trek with backpacks, some staying at the huts and others tenting.

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Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

Fog obscured big views on the day we hiked Mount Tecumseh, but the forest was lush and green. Note the well-beaten highly visible path (photo by K. Keyser).

Fog obscured big views on the day we hiked Mount Tecumseh, but the forest was lush and green. Note the well-beaten highly visible path (photo by K. Keyser).

Impossible as it may seem, within a few minutes of our hike up Mount Tecumseh in Waterville Valley, my friend and I have lost the trail, and now find ourselves bushwhacking through a wet humid forest.

Technically we are not lost, because we know where we are – hiking along or at least within hearing range of Tecumseh Brook. But I know that the trail travels for a solid mile along the brook, an easy distance to travel on a trail, but one which could take a couple of hours if we cover it by picking our way up the brook, or by hiking on its steep bank, slipping over, under and around blowdowns, and pushing through beech saplings and hobblebush.

After an hour of mauling our way through the forest, we are soaked, even though it is not raining. I suggest that we angle upwards, on the south side of the brook, until we reach the open space of the ski trail cut on the ridge above us. If we never find the trail, we can always hike up the ski slope which is part of the Waterville Valley ski resort.

After a few additional minutes of hiking uphill, we stumble out of the woods onto the trail, a well-beaten, well-travelled trail which shortly leads us to a rock slab with a view of the Valley.  Compared to bushwhacking in a humid forest, the rest of the hike is a breeze by White Mountain standards, as it flattens out on the ridge before climbing one last steep pitch to the summit cone.

Rock pile that officially establishes the summit at Mount Tecumseh. The camera didn't pick up the buzzing black flies (photo by K. Keyser).

Rock pile that officially establishes the summit at Mount Tecumseh. The camera didn’t pick up the buzzing black flies (photo by K. Keyser).

Mount Tecumseh is the shortest of the tallest mountains in New Hampshire, a 4,000-footer but just by three feet (4,003 feet).  However, what the mountain lacks in height, it makes up for in views, at least theoretically.  Although Tecumseh is mostly a wooded summit, from various vantage points on the summit and the ridge just below, hikers can see up to 36 other 4,000-footers.  On this muggy day, however, our view is limited to a carpet of soft green trees vaguely visible through a dense cloud of fog.  On this Sunday in late June, black flies still buzz. Slapping at flies between bites, we quickly eat our lunch.

Waterville Valley is one of a handful of mountain valleys in New England that could be in Switzerland, albeit with smaller less craggy peaks.  The Valley is set apart from the rest of the world, with the mountains forming a lofty wall around a ten-mile wide swath of valley floor. Although the seasonal Tripoli Road climbs up from the Valley over the mountains to Lincoln, the 13-mile drive on Route x along the Mad River from I-93 is the only road up into the Valley and the road ends where the mountains begin.

Even though Waterville Valley is a well-known ski destination, for me, finding a mini-village of hotels, shops and restaurants here always feels like discovering a secret self-contained world.  Town Square is more of a destination than a village, but the Valley does have a community of 247 year-round residents, including a K-8 elementary school with 40 or so kids.

This sense of being surrounded by mountains made Waterville Valley an early destination for mountain tourists.  The Valley was the first place in the White Mountains where hikers built trails, beginning in the 1850s, when the mountain tourist boom was first heating up. Later, in the 1930s, some of the first ski trails in New England were cut in these woods, including the Tecumseh Ski Trail, which became the site of a now-discontinued annual race.

However, although the Valley was revered by a devoted group of cottage owners, hikers, and hard-core skiiers, it remained an off-the-beaten path destination until the 1960s, when former Olympian Tom Corcoran bought up much of the 600 or so acres of private land in the Valley and began the still-continuing process of developing Waterville Valley as a full-service ski resort and vacation destination. (Mount Tecumseh itself, along with all of the surrounding mountains, is part of White Mountain National Forest). After Corcoran sold the resort in 1994, Waterville Valley cycled through several corporate owners, until it was purchased in 2010 by local investors, including John Sununu.

Mount Tecumseh is named for a Shawnee chief who achieved fame far from New Hampshire in the Ohio River Valley.  How the mountain retained Tecumseh’s name is a bit of a mystery.  A map of the White Mountains published in 1860 labeled it as Tecumseh.  Some sources attribute the name to E.J. Young, a Campton, N.H. photographer, who also may have named neighboring Mount Osceola (another 4,000-footer), for a Seminole chief who also never came within a thousand miles of New Hampshire.

From the summit of Tecumseh, hikers can continue on the Sosman Trail, which travels to White Peak at the top of the ski area, and then either descend down the grassy ski slopes, or backtrack.  The Tecumseh Trail itself traverses the ridge and ends at the height of land on Tripoli Road (an option with two cars but not as a loop).  Because of our earlier debacle in the woods – and given the lack of views — we elect to backtrack rather than crash down the unmarked but fairly obvious downhill ski trail.

Later, on the final leg of the hike, we can’t fathom how we lost the trail, given how well-marked it is, how obviously trail-ish.  The experience is a good reminder as to how easy it is to make mistakes in the woods, to miss turns, or get turned around, even on well-travelled trails, and why hikers should always carry a map and compass or GPS.

Although I was without the family on this adventure, Mount Tecumseh is a good family hike, not too long or too hard, with the added bonus of giving kids the psychological boost of summiting a 4,000-footer. Of course, they might get the wrong idea about 4,000-footers, i.e. that such hikes are fairly easy and not too long.  Hopefully they will forget about easy and short if the next hike is steep and long.  Hopefully I will too.

Resources

The Waterville Valley Athletic and Improvement Society, established in 1888, offers a wealth of information on hiking trails in WV, along with information on a variety of other activities, including croquet.

Sources

About Waterville Valley.  Town of Waterville Valley website. More on the history of Waterville Valley.

Goodrich, Nathaniel L. The Waterville Valley: A Story of a Resort in the White Mountains. Lunenburg, Vermont: The North Country Press, 1952.  Short book about the history of the valley, including information about the first settlers, the early tourism industry, the logging industry, and how the Valley ended up becoming part of the White Mountain National Forest.  I checked this book out of the Bowdoin College library (via our interload system) and I believe I am probably the first reader of this particular copy. It’s hard to fathom how much of the White Mountains was reduced to slash during the peak of the logging era in the early 20th century.

Smith, Steven D. and Mike Dickerman.  The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History. Littleton, NH: Bondcliff Books, 2001

Waterville Valley Resort. Waterville Valley, New Hampshire.  New England Ski History website.

If you enjoy this 4,000-footer trip report, check out some of my other posts:

The Agony and Ecstasy of Climbing Four Thousand Footers: Mounts Willey, Field, and Tom

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook: Mount Moosilauke

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

Moriah, my Moriah: Why Did I Wait So Long to Climb Thee?

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Brutal Beauty on Beaver Brook, Mount Moosilauke

The ominous sign at the beginning of the Beaver Brook Trail.

The ominous sign at the beginning of the Beaver Brook Trail.

Be careful, to avoid tragic results. Great.

A punishing hike is exactly what I hoped to avoid when I set out on this day in mid-June to climb a 4,000-footer and decided to make my first ascent of New Hampshire’s 4,802-foot Mount Moosilauke, on the western side of the White Mountains.  But the road to the Benton Trail – a one-time bridle path that offers a gradual climb — remained closed due to damage wrought by Hurricane Irene.  So here I am, reading the sign at Beaver Brook Trail.

On this weekday morning, several cars are parked in the lot, and I know that Beaver Brook, as part of the Appalachian Trail, has to be a well-traveled trail. How bad can it be?  Answer: for experienced hikers accustomed to suffering in the White Mountains: not that bad (definitely easier than Kedron Flume Trail on Mount Willey).  For afternoon strollers and people with heart conditions:  heed the warning.  The trail climbs straight up to the ridge for most of  the first 1.4 mile stretch.

Cascades tumble down the rock face on Beaver Brook trail.

Cascades tumble down the rock face on Beaver Brook trail.

The climb is both beautiful and brutal.  Today, a few days after heavy rains, Beaver Brook pours over rock ledges in a series of cascading waterfalls.  On a rainy day, the rock slabs overlooking the brook could get slippery, and yes, the possibility of a “tragic result” exists, but probably only for small children or crazed tween boys running amok.  If hikers watch their footing, the trail is fine. As I told another pair of hikers, I read the accident reports in Appalachia and don’t recall ever reading of a fatal hiking accident on Moosilauke.

The mountain has claimed lives, but not from hiking.  On January 14, 1942, two airmen were killed after a B-18 bomber returning from an Atlantic patrol crashed in a snowstorm, not far from this trail, on the flank of neighboring Mount Waternomee. Five survivors were rescued by Lincoln and Woodstock locals who had heard the explosion and set off on snowshoes into the dark snowy woods to see what had happened.  (Today, from a trail off Route 18, you can hike to the plane crash site and memorial).

From the shelter, hikers have their first views of Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge.

From the shelter, hikers have their first views of Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge.

Up, up, up, I climb, placing one foot at a time on wooden slabs glued onto the rock (or so it seems). I take a drink, rest my calves, and continue. Glassy sheets of falling water splash down the rock face.   Taking a breath, I remind myself to appreciate its magnificence.  After an hour-and-a-half of climbing, I arrive at the Beaver Brook three-sided shelter. A great spot to rest, with views of Mount Lafayette and Franconia Ridge and many mountains rolling behind them.  Those AT hikers who spend the night here catch the sunrise over the mountains.

The final leg of the Benton Trail climbs up over the mountain's bald alpine summit.

The final leg of the Benton Trail climbs up over the mountain’s bald alpine summit.

Continuing to climb uphill, eventually I reach a ridge. Although the ridge has some ups and downs, the trail feels like a road walk after the brutal ascent up Beaver Brook.  To the southeast, Gorge Brook Ravine drops below me.  After 3.5 miles (and several hours) of hiking, I arrive at the junction of the Benton Trail, and step out of the mixed spruce and fir forest into an ancient druidic world of rock cairns and green alpine meadow.  From my vantage point below the summit, the foundation remnants of a once-thriving mountain-top hotel suggest Stonehenge.

The Benton Trail follows the route of the old Carriage Road that once led visitors to the summit in buckboard carts.

The Benton Trail follows the route of the old Carriage Road that once led visitors to the summit in buckboard carts.

A hotel was first established on the summit of Mount Moosilauke in 1860, reportedly opening on July 4, 1860 with a band that entertained a throng of 1000 visitors. A hundred years earlier, Mount Moosilauke and the surrounding area was a wilderness, partly because of the rugged terrain and partly because continuing warfare between the French and their Abenaki allies and the English had discouraged settlement, even on the rich floodplain of the upper Connecticut River Valley.

Several 19th century histories of the area relate that during the French and Indian War, one of Robert Rogers’ Rangers, Robert Pomeroy, perished on Mount Moosilauke, after the Rangers were retreating from their October attack on the Abenaki mission village at St. Francis, Quebec.  However, whether or not Pomeroy actually died on Mount Moosilauke is hard to determine, as many variations of his demise exist.

According to Rogers’ journals, the Major did split his starving party of retreating Rangers into several groups after the raid on St. Francis, with the hope that the smaller groups would be more successful in finding game.  The men were all supposed to meet up a couple of weeks later at the junction of the Wells and Wild Ammonoonsuc River.  One group, however, led by Sargent Benjamin Bradley, decided to strike out across the wilderness for Concord.  Of course they became hopelessly lost in the mountains.  Travel was never easy in the mountains. Now, with cold weather coming on hard and no provisions, they struggled through woods and mountainous terrain loaded up with loot from St. Francis, including a 10-pound silver medallion of the Madonna.

One historical account (see Loescher) recounts that the group of four men wandered in the mountains for many days until all but a man named Private Hoit were too weak to continue.  Bradley, Pomeroy, and a black private named Jacob “crawled under some rocks and perished in the delirium brought on by hunger and despair, blaspheming and hurling horrible imprecations at the silver image on which, in their insanity, they blamed all their sufferings.”  Although weak with hunger and exhaustion, one of the men reportedly “seized the statue, tottered to the edge of a precipice and, exerting all his remaining strength, dashed it down into the gulf below.”

Another source (Smith and Dickerman) states that Pomeroy perished on Moosilauke’s summit, while a companion was rescued by an old trapper in Gorge Brook Ravine.  However, a local history of Derryfield, N.H., Pomeroy’s hometown, says that Pomeroy perished in the vicinity of the headwaters of the Merrimack River, at a place where some artifacts belonging to him were found.

Was the silver Madonna from St. Francis hurled into Gorge Brook Ravine from the very ridge on which I walk?  We can never know for certain, and I guess it doesn’t matter, except that knowing the history of the mountain contributes to how I know the mountain, and adds to the value of my experience.  For modern treasure hunters seeking riches, the mystery continues to motivate them in searching for the silver Madonna, which has never been found.

A breezy day at the summit, but not the more typical heavy winds.

A breezy day at the summit, but not the more typical heavy winds.

At the summit, I rest in the lee of a crumbling foundation wall, eat my hummus sandwich, and take in the 360-degree views of the White Mountains and the Connecticut River Valley.  A bit of a cloudy day, but plenty of view.  Today a mild breeze ruffles the mountaintop, but typically, the summit is very windy. As the most western high peak in the Whites, Moosilauke catches winds from the west head on.  In the 19th century, guests at the summit hotel must have spent many nights listening to the howling winds and wondering if their shelter would hold fast.  In the end, the hotel and all of its variations withstood winds that can reach hurricane force, but fell victim to fire, in 1942.

About 100 acres of wide open alpine vegetation cover Moosilauke's summit

About 100 acres of wide open alpine vegetation cover Moosilauke’s summit

On the way down the mountain, I suffer less and notice more.  The trillium are just past their time, but the hobble-bushes still hold their flowers.  I hear a chickadee singing and spot the bird on the crown of a spruce tree, like a star on a Christmas tree.

I make good time on the ridge and down the first pitch of the mountain and rest up at the Beaver Brook Shelter.  Then I am ready to begin the steep walk downhill, one step at a time.   Today’s hike will cure me of the desire to climb 4,000-footers for at least a couple of weeks.  But I know I will relapse. The cure is never permanent — thank goodness.

Directions:  The trailhead for Beaver Brook Trail is located a few miles west of North Woodstock, NH, at the height-of-land on Route 112/Kinsman Notch.

Resources and Links:

Hike to Mount Waternomee Plane Crash Site: Detailed description of the hike to the plane crash and how to find the trailhead.

The Gorge Brook Trail, the most popular trail up Moosilauke, begins at the end of Ravine Lodge Road, just above the Moosilauke Ravine Lodge, which is open to the public for food and lodging.  The Lodge is owned by Dartmouth College, which also owns a variety of cabins in the area that can be rented by the public (see details at the link to the Lodge).

Sources:

Loescher, Burt Garfield. History of Rogers’ Rangers: The First Green Berets. San Mateo, California, 1969. Loescher’s history, available in online archives, provided the quote about the lost Rangers and the Madonna.  Where he derived is information is unclear, although it might be from the journal of the French Captain Pouchot, who is listed as a reference in Loescher’s appendices.

Smith, Steven D. and Mike Dickerman.  The 4,000-Footers of the White Mountains: A Guide and History. Littleton, NH: Bondcliff Books, 2001.

If you enjoy this 4,000-footer trip report, check out some of my other posts:

The Agony and Ecstasy of Climbing Four Thousand Footers: Mounts Willey, Field, and Tom

Bushwhacking on Mount Tecumseh

On My Own on the Osceolas with Captain Samuel Willard

Moriah, my Moriah: Why Did I Wait So Long to Climb Thee?

 

Posted in Hiking, Mountains | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Governor John Wentworth and the Tea Party that wasn’t

What would happen when the tea landed in Portsmouth?  Would a mob gather at the wharf? Would violence erupt?  New Hampshire Governor John Wentworth pondered these questions when he learned, on June 25, 1774, that the mast-ship Grosvenor was sailing up the Piscataqua River and carrying cargo that included 27 chests of tea.

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John Singleton Copley came to Portsmouth to paint this portrait of young governor Wentworth in 1769.

Just a few months earlier, on the day of the Boston Tea Party in December 1773, Patriot-leaning residents of Portsmouth had held a public meeting and adopted a resolution declaring that if East India Company tea were brought to Portsmouth, the inhabitants would use “every necessary method to prevent it being landed or sold.”

As a Royal Governor appointed by the Crown, Wentworth owed his first allegiance to the King. He was troubled by the resistance to Parliamentary acts in places like Boston, even if he didn’t support  Parliament’s decisions.  And he didn’t like the fact that British troops were stationed in Boston.  Now, a cargo of tea was coming into his town, and he didn’t want trouble.

This June day was a critical moment for Wentworth, the 37-year-old nephew of the first royal governor, Benning Wentworth. The King had appointed the younger Wentworth as Governor 10 years earlier, and, up until the time of the Revolution, John Wentworth had earned the respect of most New Hampshire inhabitants for his thoughtful and creative solutions to governing the colony.  Not everyone always agreed with him, but most would concede that when Wentworth made a decision or proposed an idea, his primary goal was to serve the public welfare rather than his own.

Time and again, Wentworth had proven to be the ultimate diplomat, adept at compromise, negotiations, and at coming up with solutions.   For example, in 1771, the King’s tax people were demanding the quitrents due for lands granted in the backcountry. Wentworth knew he had to enforce the quitrent collections. He also knew that landowners would resist paying these taxes.  So he proposed that instead of going into the royal treasury, the quitrent funds should be used to develop roads from the interior to the coast.  The road-building project would help farmers get their goods to market, and generally benefit the backcountry regions of the New Hampshire.  This economic development, in turn, would ultimately generate more revenue for the Crown.   All parties bought into this win-win solution.

This sort of maneuver characterized much of Wentworth’s dealings: how to come up with a compromise in political or other disputes in which all parties felt as if they had gained something in the solution. Now, with the Grosvenor approaching Portsmouth, the Governor had to think fast to avoid a confrontation that, in his mind, would serve no good purpose in Portsmouth.

Wentworth quickly made arrangements for a message to be delivered to the captain.  Two days later, on June 27, he rode to Dover to spend the day, so as to present the appearance that nothing was afoot.  While he was gone, the tea was landed and brought to the custom house before anybody knew of its arrival.  Within a few hours, residents found out about the tea and assembled in a public meeting to discuss how to handle the situation, at which point Wentworth returned to town and joined the  meeting.  The crowd decided that as the cargo had already been off-loaded, a committee would take up the matter with the merchant to which the tea had been conveyed.  Ultimately, the committee and the merchant came up with a solution: the controversial duty on the tea was paid, but the merchant agreed to export the tea to Halifax, Nova Scotia and the residents of Portsmouth agreed not to interfere with its transport.  Though imperfect, the agreement satisfied all parties:  the duties were paid, but the tea wouldn’t be sold or consumed in Portsmouth.  Most importantly, violence was averted.

In December of 1774, when locals led by John Langdon and John Sullivan raided the cache of powder at Fort William and Mary, Wentworth acted with characteristic restraint. Instead of having the raiders rounded up and arrested – a scenario likely to result in a mob uprising – he met with leaders and asked them to return the power, on the promise of a full pardon extended to all involved.   The meeting ended cordially, but the instead of returning the power, a group of men led by Sullivan returned to the fort that night to carry off 16 cannon and other arms.

What Wentworth wanted most, it seems, was to preserve public order, to keep the peace.  But by the end of 1774, his authority had eroded and he was running out of options.   The Patriots had convened their own assembly and government in nearby Exeter.  By the spring of 1775, rebel militia had begun to fortify Portsmouth.  But even then, Wentworth continued his efforts to diffuse the situation.

In the harbor, the HMS Scarborough had begun to impress local fishermen and to seize supplies for British troops in Boston. Wentworth intervened, and Captain Andrew Barclay agreed to release the fisherman.

But by this time, the Governor was such in name only.  Only a few months earlier in January 1775, Portsmouth had greeted the birth of his first and only child, Charles-Mary, with booming cannons and celebrations.  The festivities likely concealed the extent to which Patriot fever had taken hold in New Hampshire.  Just a few months later, on June 13, 1775, Wentworth looked out his window to see a cannon pointed at the front door of his Pleasant Street home.

220px-Wentworth_Gov_Sir_John home

The Governor’s home on 346 Pleasant Street, now part of the Mark Wentworth Home senior care facility.

The cannon wasn’t specifically aimed at the Governor.  A mob had gathered in front of his Pleasant Street home to demand the surrender of his friend Colonel  Fenton, who had stopped by for a social call on route to his temporary home on board the Scarborough.  Fenton,  a once-popular Assembly member, had been voted out of office after Lexington and Concord, after angering his constituents by publishing a letter urging them to stay on their farms rather than join the rebellion.  Once Fenton surrendered, to be escorted to Exeter, Wentworth decided to leave as well.  Along with  wife Frances and baby Charles, he fled to a damp and decrepit house at Fort William and Mary in Newcastle. In August, the family left town on the Scarborough, staying first in Boston, and then sailing to England (John stayed behind in Boston and then in British-occupied New York, but eventually he joined his family in England). After the War, the Wentworths  landed in Nova Scotia, where John served for many years as lieutenant governor.

John's first cousin and wife, Lady Frances Wentworth.  They married 10 days after the 1769 death of her first husband, Theodore Atkinson. This portrait by John Singleton Copley painted this portrait in xxx, when Frances was about 20 and married to Atkinson.

John’s first cousin and wife, Lady Frances Wentworth. They married 10 days after the death of her first husband, Theodore Atkinson. John Singleton Copley painted this portrait in 1765, when Frances was about 20 and married to Atkinson.

Today some might applaud Wentworth for his integrity and loyalty to the office to which he had been appointed. Others might say that he was a member of the established elite trying to resist changes that  might challenge his social and economic standing.  Still others might call him a waffler unwilling to take a firm stance one way or the other.

In the end, Wentworth’s compromises and negotiations didn’t stop the Revolution.  He lost all of his property (except for his family portraits and furniture, which Portsmouth’s residents reserved for him) and had to flee the city of his birth, a place that his family had called home for more than a hundred years.

But in characteristic Wentworth fashion, the Governor’s losses, in a round-about way, served to benefit the public welfare. Although New Hampshire sent many men to fight in the Revolution, the war never came to New Hampshire.  Aside from that non-violent skirmish at the fort in December, 1774, no battles were fought in its towns.  No cities were burned, bombed or blockaded.  British soldiers were not quartered in local homes. Life was harder for all during the war, especially for those families who had sent their men off to distant battlefields, but at night, the residents of Portsmouth and other New Hampshire towns slept in peace.  John Wentworth may have lost all of his authority and his property, but he still managed to leave a valuable legacy for New Hampshire.

NOTE: John’s son Charles-Mary Wentworth eventually returned to live in Portsmouth, where he had many Wentworth relatives, whose numerous descendants take up a couple of columns in today’s phone book. I’d especially love to hear from any Wentworths who might have other interesting information to share about John Wentworth.

Sources

Mayo, Lawrence Shaw John Wentworth, Governor of New Hampshire: 1767-1775. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921. Mayo’s biography, which is full of interesting details about Wentworth’s life and times, presents a largely flattering and at times worshipful view of Wentworth.  Although I’m sure Wentworth had his flaws that a more objective biographer might highlight, Mayo’s book tends to confirm other bits and pieces I’ve read about Wentworth and how he governed.

Posted in Seacoast (mostly) History | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Refuge in the sands

As all hell broke loose that Friday in Boston, the beach at Morris Island stretched for miles, empty and unpeopled, like the city in lockdown.   Instead of fear, the beach inspired tranquility and an almost medically-induced sense of relief at being here, away from the events we had watched unfold on the morning news.   The sand stretched for a couple of miles around the spit as a stiff breeze blew in from the Atlantic.  Although he was speaking of a different outer beach, the scene called to mind Henry Thoreau’s observation about the Cape, “A man may stand there and put all America behind him.”

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The sands of Morris Island in Chatham, Massachusetts, stretch for a couple of miles around a spit.

My mother, my son and I had come to Morris Island at the Monomoy National Wildlife Refuge in Chatham on this April morning to look for signs of the hundreds of seals that gather on Monomoy Island, but the seals remained out of sight, on the Atlantic-facing side of the Island.

But I was not disappointed by the lack of seals, even if seals are the #1 animal on my son’s “top ten” list of animals.  The sky was vast and beach rolled out in an endless carpet of sand.  We could see footprints in the sandy trail we followed, but didn’t see any people until we had circled around to where the mile-plus Morris Island trail reaches the steep set of stairs which visitors descend to reach the beach.

common eider

This is an uncredited photo I found on the Internet. The common eider we saw floating on the pond but too far away for a good photo.

In Salt Marsh Pond, a not-so-common common eider duck, visiting from the Arctic, rested on the surface.  April’s lack of foliage, combined with the ocean and the sand, made the sky bigger.

These sands on Morris Island, at the sharpest edge of Cape Cod’s elbow, are my discovery on this spring visit.  I’m sure the beach is much busier in the summer, but today this wildlife refuge feels a world apart, especially on this day of infamy.

On the bluffs above the beach, houses that could be mistaken for large hotels look out over the same view that we see.  As we walk along the beach below the bluffs, we notice the fresh erosion from storms this past winter, especially the February’s Nor’easter that arrived almost exactly 35 years to the day of the Blizzard of 1978, a storm that divided Monomoy Island into the North and South Islands.

This February, the surging ocean breached Chatham’s South Beach, creating new currents that will impact this area over time.  Monomoy Island once had been a peninsula, but a storm washed out the isthmus back in the 50s, and the island has been inaccessible (except by boat) since the 1950s.  I tell my son that one day, when he comes back to Morris Island, those homes will be gone.  Not next year, or the year after, but some day in his lifetime, the ocean is going to carve new landscapes in these shifting sands and bluffs.

In the summer months, visitors can take a small ferry 0ver to the now-unpopulated Monomoy Islands to hike the dunes and bask in the sand and try to spot the great white sharks that now appear every summer seeking their seal prey.  Maybe we’ll come back on a summer day to make that trip and see those seals.  I seldom visit Cape Cod during the crowds of summer, but for the seals, I might consider it.

Few visitors understand that the primary purpose of federal wildlife refuges is to protect wildlife and wildlife habitat.  National parks exist for people to enjoy and to protect, but refuges exist for animals.  Under the refuge law, at Morris Island, the needs of wildlife trump human recreation.  Hiking trails here are a privilege granted rather than a right guaranteed. On this gray day packed with ugly news bulletins created by the actions of other humans, I am grateful for the privilege of sharing this refuge with the birds and the seals.

Resources and information

For more on the history of Monomoy Island, especially the lighthouse at Monomoy Point, see Monomoy Point Lighthouse.  Apparently you can arrange to stay at the Lighthouse through the Cape Cod Museum of Natural History in Brewster, MA.

For more on Chatham, see MyChatham.Com, with links to information about Chatham, its beaches, its history and the Monomoy Island Wildlife Refuge.

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Travels | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

White elephant in a green valley

The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

The trail map at Evergreen Valley.

Here at Evergreen Valley, the outside temperature is 12 degrees, but a full 28 degrees warmer, at 40, inside our “villa.”  We lost power yesterday (2/17), late in the afternoon after a day of wild snowless winds. Now, this morning, we sit wrapped in blankets in this electrically-heated 1970s condo.   Somehow the outage seems fitting, what should be, one more challenge to overcome in Evergreen Valley’s long struggle to become a destination.

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something....

The ski lodge remains a functional building. A little TLC and it could be open for something….

I first discovered Evergreen Valley, in Stoneham, Maine, about 10 years ago, as my husband and I spent a summer afternoon exploring the area while staying at another spot on nearby Kezar Lake.  Intrigued by a sign on Route 5, we turned off and followed the road for a winding 3.5 miles as it went far back into the woods and then opened up, improbably, onto a scruffy but still-functioning golf course.  Further back, a lodge-style inn was tucked into the woods.  The road climbed another couple of hundred yards up a steep hill and ended in a small parking lot bordered by a dozen lonely condos backed up against the edge of the White Mountain National Forest.   Down the hill and around the corner from the Inn, a massive ski lodge loomed at the base of an abandoned ski area.  A memory clicked into place for my husband as he recalled having attended a rock concert here back in the 1970s.

Evergreen Valley was once a place of big dreams and big schemes, and a tale of how easily local and state officials are wooed and won on the hopes of a little economic development in an unlikely spot.  Developers wanted to build a mega-ski resort here, one of the largest in New England, with a golf course, bubble-topped tennis courts, a marina on Kezar Lake, and hundreds and hundreds of housing units.  At first, the idea for the resort was a grass roots effort, but as the project expanded from a small ski mountain to a mega-resort, other locals –especially the well-off part-year residents who populate these parts during the summer months – organized against the project, citing the scale of the resort as incompatible with the surrounding area.  But really, environmental activism was the least of the challenges faced by Evergreen Valley.  The sad fact is that skiers don’t flock by the thousands to an off-the-beaten path mountain with a 1,000 vertical feet – a hill really – in an industry that already was beginning the process of consolidation that would see many of New England’s small ski areas close in the 1980s.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

The Olympic-sized pool was intended for year-round operation.

For the dreamers who envisioned Evergreen Valley, no expense, it seemed, was spared.  Timbers for the massive lodge were trucked in from Oregon.  An Olympic-sized outdoor pool – intended for both summer and winter use – was dug next to the lodge.  Tennis courts protected by a bubble dome were built, along with a riding stable with stalls for with 30 horses. Three chair lifts were installed on Adams Mountain.  When the Evergreen Valley ski area finally opened for business in 1972 (after many delays), it was a state-of-the-art recreational facility, the most ambitious opening debut in New England ski history. At the time, some other resorts had more trails and lifts, but these ski areas had typically started small, with a rope tow and a T-bar, and gradually developed over time.  At Evergreen Valley, skiers would not strain to balance on T-bars or flail around on a rope tow.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley.  The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

A half-finished condo unit greets visitors as they drive up the lonely road into Evergreen Valley. The inside was never finished. Today, several holes punctuate the roof.

But the mountain struggled to attract skiers.  By the mid-seventies, it was bankrupt and closed,  although it did open again later for a few more seasons. At one point, the state of Maine purchased the resort at public auction for $500,000, and later sold it to another hopeful developer (for full details, see the link to the article below at the New England Ski History website). Today, the lodge sits empty, and the swimming pool is an empty hole.  But the valley offers great snowmobiling, with access to miles and miles of trails, and has become a destination for snowmobilers from around the Northeast, many of whom stay at the Evergreen Valley Inn.  Maybe the snowmobilers stay at the condos too, but we don’t know, because on most nights, our car is the only one in the parking lot. The resort would be a great setting for a Stephen King novel. I’m surprised it hasn’t showed up in one yet, given that King spends a lot of time in the area, at his home on Kezar Lake.

So why are we here at Evergreen Valley? (Not only are we here, but this is our second week-long stay). We’ve come partly because I like places that feel remote and apart from the hustle-bustle.  Also, Evergreen Valley is located in convenient proximity to Bethel and the mega-resort of Sunday River (a slope with a few trails when Evergreen Valley opened), and to Shawnee Peak, a family ski area in Bridgton.   When I saw that this particular condo at Evergreen Valley came equipped with its own hot tub, I was sold.  Also, I guess I like giving a little business to the underdog, keeping hope alive. Back-door access to snowshoeing, along the old ski trails of Mount Adams or to the ledges of Speckled Mountain, is another bonus.

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Hikers can follow the abandoned ski trails to the summit of Adams Mountain.

On my first attempt to snowshoe up Adams Mountain, I took long steps through the woods as high winds with 60 mph gusts howled. Birch trees bent and flailed and snow swirled up from the ground.  I knew that the supple birches were not likely to snap in the wind, but older oak trees stood deeper in the woods.  Every time I heard a crack, I looked about to see if a tree had snapped, although I knew logically that plotting an escape from a tree falling in my direction would be a fruitless exercise.  I felt a bit like Thoreau on his final ascent of Mount Katahdin, feeling awestruck and terrified at the same time. Although I could clearly see the trail, I wasn’t sure what I would see if I reached the summit, so I decided to turn back to the condo.

The following day, remnants of the wind storm still ruffled the trees, but the howling had ended.  With the sun softening the snow and cloudless blue skies that promised great views, I was determined to make it to the 1,650-foot summit of Mount Adams, about an 800-foot elevation gain from the condos.  I snowshoed across the brook behind the condos, and bushwhacked through the trees, following yesterday’s tracks to one of the ski trails.  This time I pushed further through the woods and began to hike uphill on a wider ski trail, now filled by a glade of birches.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close.  Skies weren't as clear, but the view was still great.

Views of Kezar Lake. I took this photo on a third hike, as the day was drawing to a close. Skies weren’t as clear, but the view was still great.

Stomping uphill through the snow, I came upon a snowmobile trail, which provided a path up a steeper section. (Snowmobiles aren’t allowed on Adams Mountain, and I’m not sure if this trail was legal, but it provided a good reference for bushwhacking).  After a final bushwhack through the trees, I arrived at a southwest-facing ledge with views of Kezar Lake.  Further south, I could see the ski trails of Shawnee Peak, and to the west, mountains folding upon mountains, although the wind had kicked up just enough moisture to conceal Mount Washington’s summit.

February 2013 017

The summit is topped by a flat open area. It’s a great snowshoe hike, and a good family hike in warmer months. In the distance, the trails at Shawnee Peak are faintly visible.

I hiked up along the ledge until arriving at a flat area, forested with a grove of white pines.  The snow mobile trail ended here, and then circled around and back down the mountain.  I could see footsteps where the renegade snowmobilers had stepped out to admire the view, but on this day, I was absolutely alone on the summit.    And even though I love downhill skiing, I was happy that I had this beautiful snow-capped rocky ledge to myself on a February afternoon.

Evergreen Valley, yeah, it’s definitely grown on me. The entire valley is for sale, for a reported $2.9 million dollars. Maybe someday another visionary with deep pockets and more realistic expectations will buy the resort and do more to bring in the snowmobilers, add a destination restaurant to the Inn, or at least a cozy bar.  Maybe a millionaire yoga lover will transform the Inn into a yoga and meditation retreat that offers exquisite healthy meals and a New Age summer camp.  Maybe, like the developers and their consultants, I’m a dreamer too, because I believe that potential exists to do more here in Evergreen Valley.

I wouldn’t want to see much more than what’s here now, just enough to add some  economic development to the region, to keep the country stores open in Stoneham and Center Lovell, to add some kids to the school systems, to sustain the sense of community in this beautiful but hard-to-make-a-living corner of Maine.

I’m not interested in buying the condo next door (on the market at a 1980-ish price of $50,000), but I’ll return again to Evergreen Valley. Maybe on the next visit, I’ll hike up to the ledges on Speckled Mountain.  I’ll definitely sit in the hot tub and gaze up at the stars in the inky sky.

P.S.  The power was restored mid-morning, but we hardly suffered.  The Inn provided us with hot coffee and an invitation to hang out in front of the fire in their great room.  After breakfasting at not-too-far-away Melby’s, we returned to the warmth of a sunlight-filled living room.  Not too long afterwards, the lights blazed and the hot tub began its steady hum.

References and further reading

Evergreen Valley History – New England Ski History

Evergreen Valley, Stoneham, Maine – New England Lost Ski Areas Project

 View from Adams Mountain, Stoneham, c,. 1960

 

Posted in Family and Kids, Hiking, Maine places, Travels, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 15 Comments

The storm of the century, 35 years ago today

Thirty-five years ago today, February 6, 1978 began like any other Monday at my childhood home in Weymouth, Massachusetts. The fact that nothing stands out about that morning suggests that it was ordinary – I probably got up about 6:45, had breakfast, and walked down the street to catch the bus to Weymouth North High School.

The street was lined with snow banks left from a record-breaking storm on January 20 which had dropped 21 inches of snow. My father had already left for work in nearby Rockland.  My brother must have taken the school bus, because he was just a few weeks shy of a driver’s license. My younger sister walked the 1.5 miles to Bicknell Junior High.  My mother drove off to the Quincy subway station to take the T into her job at Mass Eye and Ear.

We knew about a pending storm.  The National Weather Service had issued storm warnings on Sunday for heavy snowfall on Monday.  But we had just weathered the January blizzard, so more snow was no big deal.

I’m pretty sure we were dismissed from school that morning around 11. Eventually we all arrived home  — my father, my sister, my brother and finally my mother, whose usual 15-minute ride from Quincy took an hour.  The snow kept falling, sometimes in bursts of three inches per hour, and falling, and falling.

Almost everyone who lived in the Boston area at that time remembers what was to follow. Hundreds of cars stopped on Routes 128 and 95. Their drivers either sat shivering, waiting for rescue, or if they could, they walked to the nearest house or other shelter, like the movie theater in Dedham.  Thousands of people lost power, although not us.  A state of emergency closed all roads for days.

After the storm, kids experienced the joy of leaping into huge drifts of snow and the thrill of a week-long unplanned vacation from school.   After being snowbound for a couple of days, we relished the novelty of walking along foot-stomped paths in the middle of the road to get to Angelo’s grocery store, about a mile-and-a-half away in Hingham.

But even though we didn’t lose electricity and could watch the news and Governor Dukakis in his black turtleneck reassuring the residents of Massachusetts, we experienced only a small slice of the Blizzard of 1978.  We didn’t know that just to the south, in the coastal town of Scituate, a five-year-old girl,  Amy Lanzikos, had been swept out of her mother’s arms after a wave knocked four people out of the boat that had just rescued them their ocean-battered homes.  Or that in the central Massachusetts town of Uxbridge, while we

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappearing during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

Peter Gosselin, age 10, disappeared during the storm. His body was found three weeks later, three feet from his back door (uncredited photo from blizzardof78.org)

jumped off snow banks, searchers were desperately looking for ten-year-old Peter Gosselin, who had gone out to play on February 7 as the storm was dying, and never came home.  Or that to the north, in Salem, the pilot boat had been lost with five experienced men after the boat had set out from Gloucester to aid a floundering Coast Guard boat that had been on its own mission to aid an oil tanker threatening to break apart.

We didn’t know how that on Cape Cod, the sea and the wind had surged onto the dunes at Coast Guard Beach and had crumpled a vast parking lot like a sheet of shredded paper.  Or that entire neighborhoods of homes just down the road in Hull, and in other coastal towns, had been wiped clean by the storm, with homes swept from their foundations and tossed about like a set of children’s blocks.  We didn’t know the feeling of being stuck in dark cold houses without heat or electricity.

We didn’t know then, and we don’t know now.  Today the world is supposed to our oyster in terms of information. We are surrounded by news and bombarded with information, but we haven’t changed all that much in our ability to grasp the sum of disparate events.  We still need a narrative to understand the world, a person to tell the story.

Last fall, Hurricane Sandy was the “storm of the century” in the some parts of the Northeast.   Here in Kittery, we celebrated an early dismissal and spent a night in the dark, lighting candles and hunkering down with the cats.  The temperature was too warm to light the wood stove.  The storm was noisy and exciting, an awesome event but not a hardship.

To the south, in Rhode Island, New Jersey and New York, a terrifying ordeal was unfolding for millions of people.  The next day, on the morning news, we could see the picture of the New Jersey roller coaster in the Atlantic Ocean, but we couldn’t really see.  I could only began to understand the immensity of Sandy after the storm was shaped into a narrative, in this case, the excellent Nova documentary, Inside the Megastorm.

I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this thread, but maybe I’m trying to say something about how narrative and story will never go out of fashion.  That narrative – the shaping of experience into meaning– will always be more important in understanding the world than mere information.  You can have all the data in the world, but if you don’t tell a story with the data, it’s just numbers.

Snow’s in the forecast for Friday – 18 to 24 inches, with cold temperatures and howling winds.   A good day to hunker down with the cats, fire up the wood stove, and read a story  — or write one of my own.

Further reading and viewing:

There are many websites with materials relating to the Blizzard of 78, as well as books and print articles, so I’m not going to attempt to list them here.  However, for an interesting 35-year retrospective view of the blizzard, and links to further sources, see the February 5, 2012 episode of WCVB’s Chronicle.

Also, I currently reading Ten Hours Until Dawn: The True Story of Heroism and Tragedy Aboard the Can Do, by Michael J. Tougias (St. Martin’s Press, 2005). So far, I’m impressed with how Tougias recreates, in incredible detail, the events of the night of February 6 off the coast of Salem, Massachusetts.

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Winter dreams of summer days on Mount Washburn

The official summit, 10,243 feet.

The official summit, 10,243 feet.

On this cold winter afternoon in Maine, I am dreaming about summer days on Mount Washburn. The temperature is even colder today at Mount Washburn, but this past August, we slathered on sun screen and wore shorts and t-shirts when we hiked the 10,243-foot mountain. Our daypacks were stuffed with fleece and windbreakers, because we knew that no matter what time of year, it’s always much colder at the summit of Mount Washburn because of the wind that blows across the Washburn Range. Even with the wind, or maybe because of it, the mountain is still the most popular hike in Yellowstone National Park.

But popular doesn’t mean crowded, at least not by eastern standards. In the summer, hikers will always encounter other hikers on the trails or at the summit, but not hundreds of them — not the crowds at Mount Washington or even at the summit Maine’s Mount Katahdhin.

This past August (2012), I travelled to Wyoming with my family for a reunion with my old haunts at Yellowstone, where I had worked one summer almost 30 years ago, at an ice cream stand with a view of Old Faithful.

Although not the longest, most remote or most adventuresome, my hike up Mount Washburn in June 1984 was my favorite of that season. The blue sky that morning was crystal clear and the green slopes of the mountain blossomed with mountain lupine and other wildflowers. I don’t remember if we saw any of the bighorn sheep rumored to hang out on the mountain’s slopes, but I do remember the feeling of freedom I felt on my first hike through wide open mountain meadows, with lots of sky and big views, so different from the hiking I had known in the mountains of New England.

Mount Washburn is named for Henry Washburn, one of the leaders of the Washburn-Langford-Doane Expedition of 1870, organized to find out once and for all if fantastical tales told by trappers and mountain men about the Yellowstone region were true. Rivers that poured boiling water? Spouts of water erupting 200 feet in the air? Deep blue pools in which a man could cook a fish or lose his life if he decided to take a bath? Such phenomena could not possibly exist, but perhaps gold or other valuable resources might be found in the rivers and mountains of Yellowstone.

The expedition soon learned that “The Wonders of Yellowstone” (the Nathaniel Langford article published afterwards in Scribners magazine) did exist and that mountain man Jim Bridger (and others) had not exaggerated in telling his tales. In this land of boiling mud cauldrons, smoke and sulphur, climbing a mountain might have seemed an arduous but necessary task, but when Lieutenant Gustavus Doane completed the climb on August 29, 1870, the beauty of what he saw was almost impossible to capture with language (although he did manage to bang out 500 or so words when he wrote about the trip in official report):

William Henry Jackson photo of Mount Washburn, probably taken during the Hayden Expedition of 1872, which included photographer Jackson and painter Charles Moran. The visual images created by Jackson and Moran were instrumental in persuading Congress to create Yellowstone National Park. (Library of Congress photo in the public domain).

William Henry Jackson photo of Mount Washburn, probably taken during the Hayden Expedition of 1872, which included photographer Jackson and painter Charles Moran. The visual images created by Jackson and Moran were instrumental in persuading Congress to create Yellowstone National Park. (Library of Congress photo in the public domain).

“The view from the summit, “ Doane noted, “is beyond all adequate description. Looking northward from the base of the mountain the great plateau stretches away to the front and left with its innumerable groves and sparkling waters, a variegated landscape of surpassing beauty, bounded on its extreme verge by the cañons of the Yellowstone. The pure atmosphere of this lofty region causes every outline of tree, rock or lakelet to be visible with wonderful distinctness.….The mind struggles and then falls back upon itself despairing in the effort to grasp by a single thought the idea of its immensity.”

The experience of hiking up Mount Washburn, I learned this summer, hasn’t changed all that much in spirit, either my from 1984 trek or from Doane’s 1870 adventure. Hikers can ascend, as we did, from the 2.8 mile trail that ascends from the Chittenden Road, or from the three-mile trail that begins at the Dunraven Pass picnic area.

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The trail follows an old road. In this view, you can just barely see the fire lookout building at the summit.

From the Chittenden Road parking area, the hike climbs gradually uphill, with an altitude gain of about 1,500 feet from the parking lot. The trail follows the path of an old road cuts up the mountain in a series of long switchbacks. The road now services the fire lookout, but originally was used by stagecoaches and wagons to take tourists to the summit, and then by automobiles until it was closed to regular traffic in the 1960s. At the summit, hikers are rewarded with 360-degree views and can warm up in the shelter of the  fire lookout. On the August day when we climbed Mount Washburn, a small collection of hikers were eating their lunch inside the stone structure. Outside the wind blew hard, and we were glad to have our fleece pullovers and windbreakers.

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Gray patches of dead lodgepole pines left in the wake of the 1988 fires. The sky was hazy until mid-afternoon, when it cleared up a bit.

From my 1984 visit, I remember the clarity of the alpine air and a scene much like that described by Doane. On this August hike, the view was hazy, obscured by the persistent smoke of several small forest fires. Throughout the day, a faint scent of smoke pervaded the air. On the trail, large swaths of gray lodgepole pines swept up the mountain’s flank, gray ghosts left from the forest fires that consumed much of Yellowstone in 1988. The hazy views are partly the result of new fire management policies implemented after the devastating 1988 fires, which were exacerbated by the then-existing policy of extinguishing fires as quickly as possible. Although well-intentioned – who wants to see a forest consumed by fire? – the “no-burn” policy caused dead trees to gather on the forest floor, creating ideal “ladders” for fired to climb into the treetop crowns, and then quickly spread throughout the park.

Close up of the pines.  On Mount Washburn, I didn't see much evidence that the forest was regenerating.

Close up of the pines. On Mount Washburn, I didn’t see much evidence that the forest was regenerating.

Today, small fires are left to burn, which both kills off dead branches that might build up into fire ladders and also promotes a healthy forest ecosystem. The pinecones of the lodgepole pine need fire to burst open and release their seeds so that new trees can propagate. The “no-fire” policy, therefore, had the effect of twice killing off the forest it was trying to save. But we didn’t know, or maybe we did know — by the 1980s, scientists understood that fire suppression wasn’t the answer – but maybe those scientists couldn’t convince the policy makers that trees needed fire, just as congressmen and senators couldn’t believe that a caldera of steaming land existed in the northwest corner of Wyoming.

The persistence of the smoky air might be a change from the time of the Washburn expedition. Over the past couple of decades, a hotter, drier climate out west has created ideal conditions for fires to burn quicker, bigger and longer. Is the increase in fires an indirect but predictable consequence of climate change? Or part of a fire cycle that was interrupted during the many decade of the fire suppression policy? Or a combination of both?

We don’t have all the answers, or definite solutions, to the challenges facing the forests or to the problem of climate change. As someone who was born wanting to travel, I feel pulled by conflicting impulses –– wanting to be part of the climate change solution, but also wanting to travel to the ends of the earth even if that means contributing to the spread of carbon poisons. I’ve done more than my fair share of travel by human power – on foot, by bicycle and kayak – but inevitably, I rely on fuel-powered transport to get me places. I know that jet fuel leaves an especially large carbon footprint. Can I offset that footprint with at-home recycling and reduced consumption? Does it really matter if I do so, given that millions of people in China, India and other countries can hardly wait to buy their first cars?

Looking out to the south. Hazy skies, so we missed the view of the Tetons.

Looking out to the south. Hazy skies, so we missed the view of the Tetons.

Although I’d like my actions contribute to solving the problem, I don’t feel guilty about the carbon footprint generated by my travels, nor does this knowledge diminish my pleasure in climbing Mount Washburn. (But maybe I feel a little guilty about not feeling guilty). One paradox of hiking and enjoying the great outdoors is that visits to places such as Mount Washburn cultivate an appreciation for the environment while also encouraging an exploring lifestyle that contributes to environmental problems (albeit on a much-reduced scale compared to industrial pollution).

I could choose to hike only in mountains closer to my home, but then I wouldn’t have climbed Mount Washburn on this beautiful August afternoon. Perhaps I am like most other Americans, preferring to ignore the problem, or refuse to believe all the evidence of its existence, rather than truly step up to the plate of my responsibility.

But not today, not when I am dreaming about Mount Washburn.  When I am remembering the satisfaction of putting one foot in front of another as the stone base of the fire tower gradually comes into view.  When I recall the greenish-brown alpine landscape spreading below me.  The joy of holding onto my hat as the wind threatens to blow me away…..

For a current view from the summit of Mount Washburn, check out the Park Service web cam.

Notes and sources:

Doane, Gustavus C. “The report of Lieutenant Gustavus C. Doane upon the so-called Yellowstone Expedition of 1870 (Report).” U.S. Secretary of War. March 3, 1871.
Langford, Nathaniel P. “The Wonders of Yellowstone”. Scribner’s Magazine. May 1871.

Nijhuis, Michelle. “Forest fires: Burn out.” Nature. 19 September 2012
http://www.nature.com/news/forest-fires-burn-out-1.11424

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